


You I Want Most

by downdeepinside



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Slightly OOC Sherlock, Unrequited Love, dark!john, lying, prompted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 02:27:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downdeepinside/pseuds/downdeepinside
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for 'myladyann's prompt on tumblr - "Mycroft is the Holmes John loves".</p>
<p>John knows he wants Mycroft - unfortunately there are a few hurdles in the way of him getting what he needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You I Want Most

**Author's Note:**

> Please be aware the John in this fic is creepy, and dark, and Sherlock is cheated and tricked. If these issues are not things you want to read about, don't. I'm not forcing you to and (as much as I enjoy bringing pain to my readers) I don't want to actually hurt any of you.
> 
> As for queen/lady ann, I'm sorry this probably isn't at all what you were expecting.

John looks down to the thin papery hands wrapped around his, every point of contact between him and his (soon to be) husband’s freezing fingers making his own war-torn hands ache like the frost on a bitter winter’s day. The registrar asks the question John wishes he wouldn’t and the old soldier forces a winning smile before looking up to meet Sherlock’s eyes.

“I do.” He declares, firmly, and the consulting detective grins one of his (rare, but true) grins. There’s a small amount of polite applause but John has no time to think about it, before slippery threadlike lips are pressed to his. Sherlock’s still smiling, although his weird eyes are now shut, and his teeth brush against John causing a quiet clanging sound that reverberates throughout John’s entire being. He pulls back a little and forces a hand through the other man’s tangle of curls. “Love,” he murmurs, hoping his voice sounds as Mr Darcy’s at the end of Pride and Prejudice rather than Mr Wickham’s half way through, “I didn’t think you were into these sorts of… displays?”

Sherlock smirks and crinkles his nose, making him seem like some stupid child. “It’s my  _wedding day_.” He jokingly bemoans, and John forces an idiotic giggle that makes him die inside.

“Come on,” he tugs on the other man’s hands and gestures towards the exit, “Let’s get the paperwork over with.”

Sherlock follows after his command like a lovesick puppy, and when Mycroft hands over a wad of papers for them both to sign the detective is so lost in his own world he doesn’t notice his partners pained expression.

***

When the two arrive at their hotel room in Norway (who the  _fuck_  wants a honeymoon in Norway?) they have sex for the first time. John had rather been hoping he could sleep through it but – no. Sherlock’s not about to forget about his first-time, is he? Not now.

It’s long, and awkward, and in the end John has to close his eyes and imagine a different Holmes squirming underneath him to get anywhere. But he makes it. And Sherlock falls asleep wrapped around him like a sticky and slightly off-smelling blanket.

Sherlock’s happy and John’s… John’s where he’s got to be.

***

“I – I worry about him. Constantly.”

John smiles a thin smile and nods. This, he already knows. Mycroft Holmes. He manages to avoid all of the press, and as far as dirt-digging you’ve got to go pretty far to find anything on him.

But the moment you get him in a room with his brother, it’s obvious.

To get to Mycroft, you’ve got to get to Sherlock.

And John sure as hell wants to get to Mycroft.

***

The ex-soldier takes the stairs up to the (his?) flat two at a time, his arms aching a little from the piles of shopping loaded upon them. He’s getting weak. A few months ago he’d have laughed at anyone struggling with a few groceries.

The door swings open when he makes it upstairs and he promptly drops his load on the kitchen table, letting out a heavy sigh before tugging on the ends of his terrible itchy jumper and turning to find the younger Holmes lying on the coach. “Sherlock?” he starts, heading towards the man with the stealth of an ex-SAS agent. The younger man snuffles like a pig and blinks his eyes open – clearly he fell asleep whilst thinking again. Any respect John had had for the younger Holmes brother was diminished months ago.

“John.” He yawns, pawing at his eyes and then blinking them open blearily to smile, tilting his head up expectantly while his eyes flicker transparently to John’s lips. John wipes his palm across his lips, flashes a toothy smile, and sits down in his chair.

Sherlock’s thought process seems to falter for a moment.

John carries on regardless.

“I’ve been thinking,” he starts, resting his elbows on the arms of his uncomfortable red chair, “About your brother.” It’s an understatement, John supposes, but Sherlock is too busy (too  _stupid_ _)_  to know about that. “We haven’t seen him since the wedding,” forty six days ago, “Shouldn’t we… I don’t know. Check up on him? See if he’s alright?”

Sherlock sighs and throws his head back, closing his eyes before scrunching his eyebrows. “What’s this sudden interest in Mycroft for?”

The soldier bites his lip and closes his eyes, before going for broke and pushing out a (dramatic) heavy breath. “Harry,” he starts, and Sherlock immediately glances over at him with raised brows.

“I’ll text him,” the concerned husband murmurs, and the actor smiles gratefully.

Perfect.

***

Mycroft’s house is just like the man himself; it’s expensive, sophisticated, and cunningly disguised as something insignificant and un-noteworthy. The house looks like the home of any old well-off Londoner, and not like the centre of government for roughly fifteen nations worldwide. Sherlock’s understanding of how far his big brother’s influence stretches is laughable – the man is  _so_  much bigger than the British government. So much more.

A smartly dressed assistant shows Sherlock and John in past the front door, and John risks a wave at the CCTV camera by the entrance.

Nearly there.

Not much longer now.

***

The three men sit around the table; Mycroft’s plate loaded with roast dinner and all the trimmings, John’s covered in generous servings of expensive beef, and Sherlock’s with just a few vegetables and a pitiful puddle of gravy. Disgusting. Childish. John wishes he could jump up and punch the ungrateful little brat right in the face.

“Would you pass the salt Gre- John. John, ah, the salt, please?”

John blinks and retrieves the salt from his husband’s firm grip, passing it down to the politician with a polite smile. “Greg?” He asks, hoping he succeeds in feigning innocence.

The elder Holmes brother goes slightly red and pulls at his collar, shaking his head. “It’s been a long day, I do apologise Dr Watson.”

John snorts and digs his fork into his meat, creating a grating sound as the metal scrapes against the plate, “Who is this ‘Greg’?” he asks, a false smile playing on his lips, “It’s not like you to be distracted.”

Mycroft purses his lips and reaches for his wine glass – just as Sherlock loudly scoffs and sucks a harsh breath in, “Oh Mycroft, you  _haven’t_.” He shakes his head in disgust and reaches for John’s hand, “John, logic save us all, Mycroft  _likes_  someone.”

“Sherlock,” the long-suffering brother hisses, and John has to resist the urge to reach out a hand to the man, “My relationship with the inspector really isn’t any of your business-”

“The inspector?” Both men say at the same time, each equally incredulous. Their eyes meet for a brief moment, and Sherlock’s face pulls into an expression John later learns he should have taken closer notice of.

“You’re... dating Greg? Greg Lestrade? You’re…  _dating_  him?”

John was a soldier. Cunning disguises were never really his area. Mycroft swallows loudly and as he stands his chair nearly topples over completely.

“Dr Watson I hardly see how this is any of your bussi-”

“You barely know the man!” John finds himself on his feet, and Sherlock’s hand falls away from his own. Cold. Mycroft squints his eyes as he assesses John, before he shuts himself out and turns to leave the room.

“Might I remind you, doctor, just which Holmes it is you are married to?”

The door fall softly shut behind the aristocrat, and John slowly turns to his husband. Who is deathly pale. And trembling like a new born fawn.

***

The cab ride home is silent. John occasionally flexes his left hand. Sherlock sits with his head resting against the back of the chair and his eyes closed, flickering the way they do when he’s navigating his mind palace.

Searching.

***

Sherlock pays the driver, and John marches up the stairs and into the flat. He sits down on his chair, before deciding better of it and pacing back and forth across the living room floor. Sherlock can probably see the trail of foot-imprints he leaves.

The (self-named) consulting detective lacks his brother’s elegance – when he enters the flat the door slams shut and his coat hits the floor with a loud hush of fabric.

He stands in the centre of the room, staring daggers at the bullet holes he once, when in a better (more ignorant) mood, placed there. He tries to get himself under control, it’s physically painful for John to watch him waste so much effort, before he swears loudly and kicks the coffee table.

The display of emotions makes the former soldier flinch.

“I should have known.” Sherlock growls, throwing his arms desperately up into the air before letting them fall quickly to his sides again. “How can I have been so  _stupid_! You’re not even a con-artist for fucks sakes – just a regular soldier with a… Mycroft? Really? You love  _Mycroft_?”

“I think,” John’s voice is calm, and he allows a small smile as he sits in Sherlock’s (ah, yes,  _this_  is the right seat for him) leather cushioned armchair. “In fairness,” he sinks a little further down into the pew, “I’m not the only one.”

“He’s my brother.”

“And so, I suppose, you must know what a… catch he is.”

“I-” Sherlock scowls, and then since as he sinks down to sit on the coffee table, “That’s-” after a moment he shakes his head and rests his chin against the backs of his palms, “He likes Lestrade. If you know my brother, as I suspect you do, you will understand he isn’t the sort of man another can walk away from. Not that I’d imagine Graham would want to walk away from that much money and the hope of a comfortable future.”

“People can easily be persuaded. Their hearts can be changed.”

Sherlock looks up slowly, his eyes red rimmed and his lips an ugly shade of purple, “No they can’t. Love it… it can’t just… be created and destroyed. It can’t happen just like that.”

John places his hands by his thighs, before pushing himself up onto his feet. He takes small steps towards Sherlock before bending down, and pressing a light kiss to the other’s sunken cheek.

“You forget, husband dear. That’s exactly what I did with you.”

***

Fin.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.


End file.
